The Spiritglass Charade (Stoker & Holmes 2)

I walked boldly into Fenmen’s End and every eye in the place turned toward me. I was one of only four females in the establishment, and, I daresay, the cleanest of the lot. It was my plan to attract attention, for I knew word would get to Pix once I showed myself.

As for my attire . . . I wanted to be noticed, but I wasn’t mad enough to wear a ball gown. Or even men’s clothing, as I’d done the first time I came to the pub. Instead, my clothing was a walking dress in what was called Street-Fashion. Though I was much less of a cognoggin than Mina Holmes, I had come to appreciate elements of that style—especially the exterior corset. Actually wearing your undergarment for all to see! It was shocking. Yet the corsets made to be seen were often gorgeous pieces of fashion, and more decorative than practical.

Tonight, my ensemble jingled with decorative cogs and gears instead of the normal lace and embroidery. I wore long fingerless gloves made from soft, buttery leather. Tiny watchworks and jet beads were stitched all along the tops of them, and they laced tightly from palm to elbow, over my shirtsleeves.

I’d chosen a pale yellow shirtwaist, and the corset I wore over it was made of brown leather, plaited up the side so I could do it myself. My maid, Pepper, had helped me dress. She had assisted me in assembling the outfit—for Florence would never darken the door of a shop that sold Street-Fashion.

Pepper had also done my long, dark hair curled up into a tight, intricate coiffure. She insisted on secreting small vampire-hunting stakes in the mass of hair. She refused to let me leave the house at night without at least one somewhere on my person, in case I encountered a vampire. But that was highly unlikely, for there hadn’t been any vampires in London for decades other than a random few over the years. And instead of a bonnet, I wore a gently curved topper positioned above my left temple. Its feathers and fringe gave it a rakish appearance.

But in spite of the visible corset, the most daring part of my attire—and what I liked the most—was the skirt. Its hem was in the shape of an inverted U. This meant it came to my knees in front, then draped down and around to a more proper length in back. Layers of ruffles and gathers of the emerald brocade created a fashionable bustle at the base of my spine. And for my footwear? Tall brown boots that laced up on the inside from ankle to knee—completely, shockingly visible due to the short skirt in front.

If Florence saw me, she would be overcome with vapors. But in truth, I hardly looked any more daring than some of the barmaids, who hiked up their skirts while serving.

“Good evening, Bilbo,” I greeted the bartender. I’d only met him once, when in my disguise as a young boy. He gawked at me, overfilling a mug of ale or some other liquid that splashed onto the counter.

I sailed through the crowded place with ease, due to my short skirt and the fact that most of the patrons stepped back as they ogled me. My movements were as free as the rare times I wore trousers. I appreciated the way the chunky heels of my boots made firm, powerful clumps across the wooden floor.

I was halfway to a table when two bulky men appeared, blocking my way. Based on their dingy smiles, I was sure they’d never even heard of tooth powder, let alone used it. One of them might have shaved last month, but I doubted the other had used a razor since he sprouted his first chin hair. And maybe they’d bathed at Christmas.

“Weeeel . . . wot a peachy blowen we gots ’ere,” said the one who might have once used a razor.

“Shore ain’t no slavey, eh, Garf?” They laughed in apparent agreement. “Look’en ’ow nobby this one is. I’d like t’see wot’s under dem daisy roots she gawt there.”

“’Ow kind o’ ye t’join us, fresh jenny,” said Garf as he grabbed my arm. I gasped and reared back in pretend fright.

“Don’t touch me,” I said, struggling a little.

“Now, now, li’l loidy. We e’en ’ave a place t’sit,” the nameless one said as I was propelled roughly toward a table in a dingy corner. He leered at me, his face coming much too close. The stench made my eyes sting.

The numbfists must have thought I was light-headed because of their charming personalities, for they laughed and congratulated each other as I was shoved onto a chair. They took a seat on either side of me; the rest of the patrons were watching without appearing to be watching.

“No, thank you,” I said, attempting to stand. But a heavy hand shoved me back in my chair.

“’Ave a seat, missy. Yer ’avin’ a drink wi’ us. And then later . . . we’ll ’ave a bit more fun. If’n ye know’at I mean.”

I hid a smile. Idiots were going to get the surprise of their lives if they tried anything with me.

My so-called companions hollered for a round of whiskey, and three small glasses were delivered to the table.

“Drink’m up, jenny,” ordered Garf as his friend gulped down the spirits. Great. Rotting whiskey breath. “Things’ll be much mo’ fun if ye do. Loosen t’ings up a bit, eh? Like them laces on yer side, eh?” He poked at them.

“No, thank you. Do you have any lemonade, Bilbo?” I called to the bartender. “With a bit of ice in it, perhaps?”

This suggestion caused great guffaws of laughter and some backslapping from my so-called escorts, as well as some snickering from the other patrons. Bilbo seemed as shocked as if I’d asked for a new parasol, and Garf gave a long, aromatic belch that probably rattled his teeth. I gagged.

I’d attracted enough attention and if Pix was around, he’d know I was here. I placed my hands on the table to push my chair back. Bad choice. I should have known it would be sticky, and now I’d gotten it on my gloves and fingers. I thought about wiping them on my seatmates’ shoulders, but decided that’d probably make things worse.

“It’s been quite a pleasure, gentlemen.” I stood. “But I fear your conversation is boring and your table manners leave much to be desired. Have a—”

“Where d’ye think ye’re goin’?” The nameless one clamped a hand on my shoulder and slammed me roughly into my seat.

“Remove your hand from my person,” I said in a voice Mina Holmes would have used. “Now.”

“Now wh’ would I wanna do ’at?” he asked, tightening his fingers around the top of my arm. “Ye ain’ goin’ nowheres, little jenny, wi’out me and Garf ’ere. We gots a goo’ time planned fer ye. Jus’ t’tree o’ us. And dem laces o’ yers. We’re gonna r’lieve ye of them tight laces, ain’t we, Garf?” His laugh was unpleasant.